Someday

by David Levithan

  “But that’s what I’m saying—it’s not me. I don’t remember what they look like because they’re not me.”

  A man walking through the gallery gives me a long, strange look. So much for Rhiannon’s theory about saying crazy things in New York. A guard walks in on her rounds, and the man tells her, “Have a good day, Irene!” He keeps walking, and she calls out, “You have a good day, too, sir!” Then, under her breath, she asks, “Do I know you?”

  “So when you picture yourself, what do you picture?” Rhiannon asks.

  “I don’t picture anything. I don’t have a shape.”

  “Everything has a shape.”

  “Then I don’t have a discernible shape.”

  I know these are all obvious questions she’s asking. I know they mean she’s thought about me, and what it must be like to be me. But they’re still questions nobody has ever asked me before. And I worry that she’s not satisfied with my answers.

  “How do you picture me?” I ask.

  “I just remember you as you were, whichever day. I’m sure that will change once there are more days. But right now, I remember you that way, and know I’m both right and wrong each time.”

  “So how do you know it’s me?”

  “Because your reaction to me isn’t what Arwyn’s would be. There’s a kindness there I can recognize. An affinity. A way of seeing the world, and of seeing me, Rhiannon, in it. From that very first day.”

  “So it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a shape?”

  “What I’m saying is that you do have a shape. It just isn’t made of skin and hair and eyes and cells and blood. It’s made of other things.”

  I think about this as we wander into the surrealist galleries and I look at the works and the names of their makers. Am I shaped like a Giacometti sculpture, a person worn down into the thinnest of lines? Am I a Miró, a floating circus of whatever shapes appear? Dalí paints lions of varying degrees of facelessness coming out of eggshell-colored rocks and calls it The Accommodations of Desire. Picasso reduces us to geometric noise. Magritte divides a woman’s body into frames and calls it The Eternally Obvious. This—all of this—is more like who I am. But not exactly.

  Rhiannon stands next to me as I stare at Picasso’s Nude Standing by the Sea.

  “Maybe that’s me,” I say, nodding in its direction. “More a contortion than a person.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rhiannon says quietly. “That’s not the A I know.”

  I know my sudden despair is ridiculous. But I look at her and I think about me and I think, How?

  I don’t want her to think I’m so serious—not this soon, not this early in us being back together. So I say it like this:

  “How can you expect surrealism and impressionism to have that much in common?”

  I think it’s an unanswerable question. But Rhiannon has an answer. She doesn’t even stop to find it.

  “Because,” she says, pointing to her head, “they both come from up here.”

  RHIANNON

  I think we need to get some food. I check my phone to see what time it is, and find a couple of texts from Alexander, asking me what I’m up to. Ever since our non-breakup, I’ve kept him at a distance without entirely pushing him away. Even though I feel the impulse to text back and tell him I was just looking at the Van Gogh he has in postcard form on the wall over his bed, I don’t. I don’t text him back at all.

  A catches me checking and asks if everything’s okay.

  “It was just Alexander,” I say. “No emergency.”

  “And how’s Alexander?”

  I don’t know why this question annoys me, but it does. “Please don’t ask me that.”

  “Oh. Okay. I won’t.”

  “He just wanted to see what I was up to. It’s nothing. The much more pressing question is: Where are we going for lunch?”

  “I actually know the answer to that one. Or I will, once I map it out.”

  It ends up that A did some research on vegetarian restaurants on my behalf, and we end up at a place called Candle Cafe. It’s more elaborate than any vegetarian restaurant I’ve ever seen, serving things like southern-fried seitan and tempeh empanadas. It’s also the most expensive vegetarian restaurant I’ve ever been to, though it’s probably not all that expensive for New York City.

  I come right out and say to A, “I can’t afford this.”

  “My treat,” A says.

  “We’ve been through this. It’s not your treat. It’s Arwyn’s treat.”

  If I’m slightly exasperated at A, A’s slightly exasperated right back at me.

  “If Arywn were out with their friends, they’d be spending this much on lunch, too. I’m not costing them any more than if I weren’t here. Believe me, it’s something I’ve given some thought to.”

  “One of your rules.”

  “Sure.”

  I remind myself that we all have rules, not just A. Things that aren’t universally right or wrong—just personally right or wrong.

  I give in, and when the food comes, I’m thankful, though I’m not really sure whether to be thankful to A or to Arwyn or to both of them. Probably both of them.

  A asks me about all of the things we haven’t really talked about in our emails—school and friends and parents and other things that aren’t us. For someone who forgets so many days, A has remembered a whole lot about the time spent in my town; we talk for a long time about Steve and Stephanie and their ons and offs—because A’s met them, A knows what I’m talking about, but because A doesn’t really have a side in the fight, I’m able to observe things that maybe I couldn’t observe with Rebecca or Preston.

  I have to take out my phone and look up tempeh so I can explain what it is. A tries it, likes it—and suddenly we’re eating off each other’s plates, laughing and talking. We’ve shifted back to normal, and neither one of us had to steer. We could be any couple in the world having lunch, and at the same time we are distinctly the two of us having lunch. We are a couple like any other couple, and we are us. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to jinx it. This is what we’ve been trying to return to. Not effortless—we still need to engage, we still need to care. But the effort doesn’t feel like something extra. It feels like normal effort.

  I know I should probably be aiming higher. But I’d rather aim on target.

  “Look!” A says, pointing over my shoulder.

  I turn around and see it’s started to snow.

  A

  Day 6133 (continued)

  We walk outside, and outside has changed. We are standing on the sidewalk, showered with cloudpiece snowflakes that layer us as they fall. We are smiling at this offering of magic, brushing it out of our hair and then letting it stay there. We know there are places that will take us in, for a small admission fee—places full of medieval masterpieces and ancient riddles, reconstructed dinosaurs and priceless gems. But we resist the indoors and retrace our steps, even though our steps are covered now, blanked out by everything that’s happened since. We marvel to one another at what we are seeing. We say it aloud so we can share it. We dance along to the snowfall, and in doing so, we lift. We return to the park, which has fallen eternally quiet. We can hear our own steps. We can see our breath. We watch as all the paths turn white, and take them anyway.

  RHIANNON

  The skyscrapers disappear. Daylight filters gray. The trees bow and the streetlamps beacon blindly. The wind swirls, contradictory patterns spelled out for the eye to see. The dog walkers retreat to their kennels and the squirrels retreat to their secret city. The sounds of stillness emerge as the cars no longer touch the ground. We can hear the shape of our footsteps.

  For all we know, we are the only two people in New York.

  A

  Day 6133 (continued)

  We are missing all the winter vestments—scarves an
d hats and coats to keep out the wind and its claws.

  She shivers and I pull her close.

  I shiver and she kisses me.

  I rest my forehead on her forehead. Both our foreheads are cold.

  The snow gathers around us. Our breath is still warm. We are alive to wonders, and we are recognizing them.

  Not a word needs to be said. But we say them anyway.

  RHIANNON

  It is a small miracle that we find my car.

  The snow has transformed the parked cars into statuary, with only an occasional headlight peering out. I go to wipe off my windshield with my sleeve, but A stops me, says we should just get inside, since we’re not driving anywhere right now. There isn’t enough snow to block the door or the exhaust pipe, so I make my way carefully inside, then turn on the heat and unlock the passenger door. A slips inside, and lets out a loud “BRRRRRR” until the temperature rises to accommodate us.

  With the windows covered, it’s like we’re in our own cocoon. The snow melts into us as we lean back in our seats, let the heater do its job. The cars that pass on the street are slow and rare. Our car shudders when a plow passes, scraping its way south.

  A’s hand drifts into the space between us, and I take it. I can feel my phone vibrate in my pocket—another message.

  “Do you need to get that?” A asks.

  “No. All that can wait.”

  I am too comfortable. I can feel my eyelids starting to flutter themselves closed.

  “Don’t leave me yet,” A jokes.

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know.”

  A’s voice is so gentle, it ushers my eyes closed. But I am still holding on to A’s hand. I am still here.

  “I can’t believe I have to drive back tonight,” I say.

  “There’s no way you’re driving back in this.”

  “I have to. I have school tomorrow.”

  “It’s a snow day.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  A’s thumb is running up and down my wrist. Time slows to the rhythm of this movement.

  Soothed. I am soothed.

  The radio stays off. The phone stays in my pocket. A’s hand still touches mine. The snow continues to fall.

  I slip so seamlessly into dreaming.

  A

  Day 6133 (continued)

  As she drifts off, I close my eyes, too.

  This is what I’ve wanted: to slow down the frequency of expectation and doubt, to find the nameless peace of following each other and following the day.

  I can sense when the snow stops falling. There are more people walking by, and the sound of shoveling. I don’t disturb Rhiannon. I turn off the car and hope our own heat will hold us until she wakes.

  RHIANNON

  It’s only when we’re walking to dinner that I take out my phone. I have to call my mother and explain to her that the snow has prolonged my college visit, that I’m crashing another night on the dorm room floor of a fictional girl who used to go to my high school. I figure at least some of the messages have to be from Mom—and maybe there will be a couple from Alexander as well. I’m surprised to see that while both Mom and Alexander are represented, most of the messages are from Nathan.

  “Wait a second,” I tell A.

  Something’s going on.

  X

  The pain should be gone. I do not understand why it’s not gone. That body has already been forgotten. Yet even in this new body, I will feel a twinge in my chest. Instinctively I will feel the crash about to come, the explosion about to rise.

  But nothing happens. Because I am in a healthy body. I am fine.

  You hear the phrase all the time: a brush with death. What they don’t tell you is that the brush has paint on it. And once it touches you, you can’t get it off. Not even if you change bodies. Because it’s not the body that’s been brushed—it’s the mind.

  I must get over this. Otherwise, things will slip.

  Case in point:

  Three mornings ago, I woke up in a new body.

  I did not choose to leave the body I was in. But I could feel its resistance. I could feel him kicking at the door. And maybe I thought the kicking was other things, another attack coming on. Whatever the case, when I went to sleep that night, I didn’t tamp him down hard enough. Or maybe I didn’t want to stay badly enough. Maybe worry—stupid, persistent worry—did that.

  The result? I woke up as a woman who needed a cane to walk.

  Unacceptable.

  The next day: a man scheduled for surgery in a week.

  I thought, Are you kidding me?

  Yesterday: an eighteen-year-old wrestler.

  Much better.

  Even so, I rooted around his medical history, to make sure all was well. Or at least all was well as far as he knew. Beyond a broken arm in fifth grade and a case of mono in eighth, I was in the clear. He liked his life, so I knew it would be a bit of a fight to stay. But I needed his life, so I could fight harder than he could comprehend.

  I dug in. I’m still here.

  But even in this body, I am struck by a wavering, an uncertainty. As if his heart knows what the other heart went through. As if the mind is turning itself so the brush marks show.

  And with this reminder of pain comes a nearly subconscious call for urgency. If I had children, I suppose I’d feel I should spend more time with them. If I were searching for a cure for cancer, I’d step it up. If I were building an ark, I’d tell my wife to gather the animals.

  But I don’t have any people like that in my life. Or projects. I only have the person I’m trying to find.

  I sigh, pack up the wrestler’s gear, and throw in a knife for good measure.

  NATHAN

  After getting caught having sex-not-really in the bathroom, I’ve had to find a new library to study in. I know I’m probably exaggerating the importance and memorability of the moment for anyone besides myself, but I can only guess what would happen if the connection was made—I don’t think my parents would ground me so much as they would bury me in the ground and build a new house on top of me, to keep me from getting another stamp on my Sinner Card.

  I’m only a couple of towns over from mine, but I don’t recognize anyone, which is great. Of course, in the back of my mind, I can’t help but worry that one of these new faces is actually a mask hiding Poole. And if someone’s paying extra attention to me—well, it starts to move to the front of my mind.

  Like this girl. She keeps looking over. And when I look up, suddenly she finds the book in front of her interesting again.

  It’s a slow Sunday at the library. Mostly it’s parents and kids gearing up for story time at two o’clock. Then there’s me. And there’s this girl, with a sports duffel next to her and a book with a title I can’t make out. When I try to see what it is, it’s her turn to catch me, and I imagine both of our glances shoot away.

  I try to ignore it. I tell myself if I stay in public, everything will be fine. No bathroom breaks. And OF COURSE the minute I start to think that, my bladder starts raising its hand, desperate for me to call on it.

  Not. Helpful.

  At least the bathrooms in this place aren’t single-user. So I wait until I see a dad bringing his three sons into the men’s room. Safety in numbers. Then I bolt for it, keeping my eye on the girl the whole time.

  The peeing goes fine. I might break a speed record. When I get back, the girl isn’t in her seat—she’s wandering past my carrel, looking at my stuff. Not, like, pawing through it or anything. But definitely scoping it out. Then she disappears into the stacks, so I get a chance to look at the book she’s reading—something called Memoirs of an Invisible Man.

  Subtle. Very subtle.

  Part of me is like, fine, I’ll pack up my things and go. But the other part of me is thinking tha
t if it keeps going like this, I’m not going to have any libraries left. And I am not about to stay home all the time.

  Plus, it’s like, why are you stalking me? What do you want me to do? I’ve been given exactly one order, find A, which is impossible.

  I can’t let this creep haunt me like this. He needs to get it in his thick skull that I can’t help him. Or her. Whichever form he/she decides to menace me with.

  The girl sees me standing by her stuff. I can tell she has no idea what to do.

  “Hey,” I say. “You.”

  She’s far enough away that my voice carries and a couple of other people look. I don’t care. She looks mortified. But she comes over.

  “Look—” she starts, reaching for something in her back pocket.

  But I’m not in the mood for her threats.

  “No, you look,” I say. “You have to stop it. I can’t help you. I can’t do anything. And you driving me crazy is only going to…well, drive me crazy. How does that help you? What good does that do? Just leave me alone, okay?”

  She’s got her phone in her hand. I don’t know why.

  “What are you talking about?” she says.

  “I saw you looking at me,” I tell her. “I saw you looking, and I saw you going through my stuff. I mean, not physically, but with your eyes. When I went to pee. So I know it’s you. I know what you’re doing.”

  She actually reaches up her hand and pulls at her hair a little. Her face is getting red.

  “Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I am so, so sorry. You totally caught me.”

  This is not the reaction I was expecting from a body-swapping demon.

  I sputter, “I mean, I just—”

  She waves off the sputtering. “No, no. I’m an idiot. It’s just—I’ve never seen you here before. I’m here every Sunday, and I’ve never seen you. So I was curious. And, fuck it, you’re cute. So there was that, too. Now, naturally, I’ve made a complete fool of myself and you will conclude that I’m this crazy, foulmouthed library stalker girl who undresses you with her eyes.”